WA-HA-LOTE
The cowboy's day begins early, no matter how he spends his night. It was
four o'clock in the morning and Bowles was dead with sleep when suddenly
the light of a lantern was thrown in his eyes and he heard the cook's
voice rousing up the horse wranglers.
"Wranglers!" he rasped, shaking Brigham by the shoulder. "Git up, Brig;
it's almost day!"
"All right, Gus!" answered Brigham, cuddling down for another nap; but
Gloomy Gus had awakened too many generations of cowboys to be deceived
by a play like that, and on his way out to finish breakfast he stumbled
over Brigham's boots and woke him up to give them to him. So, with many
a yawn and sigh, poor Brigham and his fellow wrangler stamped on their
boots and went out to round up the horse pasture, and shortly afterward
a shrill yell from the cook gave notice that breakfast was ready. Five
minutes later he yelled again and beat harshly on a dishpan; then, as
the rumble of the horse herd was heard, he came and kicked open the
door.
"Hey, git up, boys!" he shouted. "Breakfast's waitin' and the remuda is
in the c'rell! The old man will be down hollerin' 'Hawses!' before you
git yore coffee!"
The bite of the cold morning air swept in as he stood there and roused
them at last to action. Swiftly Buck and Bill and Happy Jack rolled out
and hustled into their clothes; other men not yet known by name hurried
forth to wash for breakfast; and at last Bowles stepped out, to find the
sky full of stars. A cold wind breathed in from the east, where the
deceitful radiance of the false dawn set a halo on the distant ridges;
and the cowboy's life, for the moment, seemed to offer very little to an
errant lover. Around the cook's fire, with their coat collars turned up
to their ears, a group of punchers was hovering in a half-circle,
leaving the other half for Gloomy Gus. Their teeth chattered in the
frosty silence, and one by one they washed their faces in hot water from
the cook's can and waited for the signal to eat. Then the wranglers came
in, half frozen from their long ride in the open pasture, and as Brigham
poured out a cup of coffee, regardless, old Gus raised the lid from a
Dutch oven, glanced in at the nicely browned biscuits and hollered:
"Fly at it!"
A general scramble for plates and cups followed; then a raid on the
ovens and coffee-pots and kettles; and inside of three minutes twenty
men were crouching on the ground, each one supplied with beans, biscuits
and beef--the finest the range produced. They ate and came back for
more, and Bowles tried to follow their example; but breakfast at home
had been served at a later hour, and it had not been served on the
ground, either. However, he ate what he could and drank a pint of coffee
that made him as brave as a lion. It was real range coffee, that had set
on the grounds over night and been boiled for an hour in the morning. It
was strong, and made him forget the cold; but just as he was beginning
to feel like a man again silence fell on the crowd, and Henry Lee
appeared.
In his riding boots, and with a wooden-handled old Colt's in his shaps,
Mr. Lee was a different creature from the little man that Bowles had
whipsawed on the previous evening. He was a dominating man, and as he
stood by the fire for a minute and waited for enough light to rope by,
Mr. Bowles began to have his regrets. It is one thing to bully-rag a man
on his front steps, and quite another to ride bronks on a cold morning.
The memory of a man named Dunbar came over him, and he wondered if he
had died in the morning, when his bones were brittle and cold. He
remembered other things, including Dixie Lee, but without any positive
inspiration; and he took a sneaking pleasure at last in the fact that
Mr. Lee appeared to have forgotten all about him.
But Henry Lee was not the man to let an Eastern tenderfoot run it over
him, and just as he called for horses and started over toward the corral
he said to Hardy Atkins:
"Oh, Hardy, catch up that Dunbar horse and put this gentleman's saddle
on him, will you?"
He waved his hand toward Bowles, whose heart had just missed a beat, and
pulled on a trim little glove.
"What--Dunbar?" gasped the bronco-twister, startled out of his calm.
"Yes," returned Lee quietly. "The gentleman claims he can ride."
"Who--him?" demanded Atkins, pointing incredulously at the willowy
Bowles.
"Yes--him!" answered the cattleman firmly. "And after what he said to me
last evening he's either got to ride Dunbar or own himself a
coward--that's all."
"Oh," responded the twister, relieved by the alternative; and with a
wink at Buck and the rest of the crowd he went rollicking out to the
corral. By the usual sort of telepathy Hardy Atkins had come to hate and
despise Bowles quite as heartily as Bowles had learned to hate him, and
the prospect of putting the Easterner up against Dunbar made his feet
bounce off the ground. First he roped out his own mount and saddled him
by the gate; then, as the slower men caught their horses and prepared
for the work of the day, he leaned against the bars and pointed out the
man-killer to Bowles, meanwhile edging in his little talk.
"See that brown over there?" he queried, as Bowles stared breathlessly
out over the sea of tossing heads. "No, here he is now--that wall-eyed
devil with his hip knocked down--he got that when he rared over and
killed Dunbar. Can't you see 'im? Right over that bald-faced sorrel!
Yes, that hawse that limps behind!"
At that moment some impetuous cowboy roped at his mount and the round
corral became a raging maelstrom of rushing horses, thundering about in
a circle and throwing the dirt twenty feet high; but as a counter
movement checked the charge and the wind blew the dust away, the lanky
form of the horse that killed Dunbar loomed up on the edge of the herd.
He was a big, raw-boned brute, colored a sunburned, dusty brown, and a
limp in his off hind leg gave him a slinking, stealthy air; but what
impressed Bowles the most was the sinister look in his eyes. If ever a
horse was a congenital criminal, Dunbar was the animal. His head was
long and bony and bulging around the ears, and his eyes were sunk deep,
like a rattlesnake's, and with a rattlesnake's baleful glare. But there
was more than a snaky wildness in them: the wicked creature seemed to be
meditating upon his awful past, and scheming greater crimes, until his
haggard, watchful eyes were set in a fixed, brooding stare. He was a bad
horse, old Dunbar, and Atkins was there to play him up.
"You want to be careful not to hurt that hawse," he warned, as Bowles
caught his breath and started. "The boss expects to git a thousand
dollars fer him at the Cheyenne Rough-Riding Contest next summer. Now
that old Steamboat is rode, and Teddy Roosevelt is busted, they's big
money hangin' up fer a bad hawse. Got to have one, you know. It's fer
the championship of the world, and if they don't git another man-killer
they can't have no contest. I would've tried him myself, but he's too
valuable. How do you ride--with yore stirrups tied? No? Well, I reckon
you're right--likely to get caught and killed if he throws himself over
back. You ain't down here fer a Wild West Show, are ye? Uh-huh, jest
thought you might be--knowed you wasn't a puncher. Well, we'll saddle
him up fer you now--if you say so!"
He lingered significantly on the last words, and Henry Lee, who was
standing near, half smiled; but there must have been some sporting blood
back in the Bowles family somewhere, for Mr. Bowles merely murmured:
"If you will, please!" and got his saddle.
So there was nothing for Atkins to do but go in and try to catch Dunbar.
The bronco-twister shook out his rope, glanced at the boss, glanced at
him again, and dropped reluctantly into the corral. Hardy Atkins would
rather have taken a whipping than put a saddle on Dunbar; but he was up
against it now, so he lashed his loop out on the ground and advanced to
make his throw. One by one the horses that had gathered about Dunbar ran
off to the right or left, and as the old man-killer made his dash to
escape the long rope shot out with a lightning swiftness and settled
around his neck. The twister passed the rope behind him, sat back on it
and dug his high heels into the ground; but the jerk was too much for
his hand-grip, and before anyone could tail on behind he let go and
turned the horse loose.
Then, as the great whirlpool of frightened horses went charging around
the corral, Buck Buchanan, the man with the bull-moose voice, hopped
down and rushed to the center. Some one threw an extra rope to Hardy
Atkins, and once more they closed in on the outlaw. But the horse that
killed Dunbar was better than the two of them, and soon he had a second
rope to trail. A third and a fourth man leaped in to join the conflict;
and as they roped and ran and fought with Dunbar the remuda went crazy
with excitement and threatened to break down the fence.
"Put up them bars!" yelled Hardy Atkins, as a beautiful, dappled black
made a balk to leap over the gate. "Now all on this rope, boys--snub him
to that post--oh, hell!" The pistol-like report of a grass rope parting
filled out the rest of the sentence. Then the bronco-twister came
limping over to the gate where Bowles and Henry Lee were sitting,
shaking the blood from a freshly barked knuckle.
"We can't hold the blinkety-blank," he announced, gazing defiantly at
the boss. "And what's the use, anyhow?" he demanded, petulantly. "They
ain't a bronk in the remuda that can't throw this Englishman a mile! Of
course, if you want us to take a day to it----"
"Well, catch Wa-ha-lote, then!" snapped Mr. Lee. "And be quick about it!
I've got something else to do, Mr. Bowles," he observed tartly, "besides
saddle up man-killers for a man that can't sit a trotting-horse!"
This was evidently an allusion to Mr. Bowles' way of putting the English
on a jog-trot; but Bowles was too much interested to resent it. He was
watching Hardy Atkins advancing on the dappled black that had tried to
jump the bars.
"Oh," he cried enthusiastically, "is that the horse you mean? Oh, isn't
he a beautiful creature! It's so kind of you to make the change!"
"Ye-es!" drawled Mr. Lee; and all the cowboys smiled. Next to Dunbar,
Wa-ha-lote was the champion scrapper of the Bat Wing. There had been a
day when he was gentle, but ever since a drunken Texas cowboy had ridden
him with the spurs his views of life had changed. He had decided that no
decent, self-respecting horse would stand for such treatment and, after
piling a few adventurous bronco-busters, had settled down to a life of
ease and plenty. The finest looking horse in the remuda, by all odds,
was old Wa-ha-lote, the Water-dog. He was fat and shiny, and carried his
tail straight up, like a banner; the yellow dapples, like the spots on a
salamander's black hide--whence his Mexican name, Wa-ha-lote--were
bright and plain in the sunlight; and he held his head up high as he
ramped around the corral.
The sun had come up over the San Ramon Mountains while Hardy Atkins was
wrestling with Dunbar; it soared still higher while the boys caught
Wa-ha-lote. But caught he was, and saddled, for the horse never lived
that a bunch of Texas punchers cannot tie. It was hot work, with skinned
knuckles and rope-burned hands to pay for it; but the hour of revenge
was at hand, and they called for Bowles. A wild look was in every eye,
and heaven only knows what would have happened had he refused; but the
hot sun and the excitement had aroused Mr. Bowles from his calm, and he
answered like a bridegroom. Perhaps a flash of white up by the big house
added impetus to his feet; but, be that as it may, he slipped blithely
through the bars and hurried out to his mount.
"Oh, what a beautiful horse!" he cried, standing back to admire his
lines. "Do you need that blinder on his eyes?"
"What I say!" commented Atkins, ambiguously. "Now you pile on him and
take this quirt, and when I push the blind up you holler and throw it
into 'im. Are you ready?"
"Just a moment!" murmured Bowles, and for the space of half a minute he
stood patting old Water-dog's neck where he stood there, grim and
waiting, his iron legs set like posts and every muscle aquiver. Then,
with unexpected quickness, he swung lightly into the saddle and settled
himself in the stirrups.
"All right," he said. "Release him!"
"Release him it is!" shouted Atkins, with brutal exulting. "Let 'im go,
boys; and--_yee-pah_!"
He raised the blind with a single jerk, leaped back, and warped
Wa-ha-lote over the rump with a coil of rope. Other men did as much, or
more; and Bowles did not forget to holler.
"Get up, old fellow!" he shouted.
As the lashes fell, Wa-ha-lote made one mighty plunge--and stopped.
Then, as the crowd scattered, he shook out his mane and charged straight
at the high, pole gate. A shout went up, and a cry of warning, and as
the cowboys who draped the bars scrambled down to escape the crash
Bowles was seen to lean forward; he struck with his quirt, and
Wa-ha-lote vaulted the bars like a hunter. But even then he was not
satisfied. Two panel gates stood between him and the open, and he took
them both like a bird; then the dust rose up in his wake and the Bat
Wing outfit stood goggle-eyed and blasphemous.
"W'y, the blankety-blank!" crooned Hardy Atkins.
"Too skeered to pitch!" lamented Buck.
"You hit 'im too hard!" shouted Happy Jack.
"But that feller kin ride!" put in Brigham stoutly.
"Aw, listen to the Mormon-faced dastard!" raved Hardy Atkins; and as the
conversation rose mountain high, the white dresses up on the hill
fluttered back inside the house. But when Bowles came riding back on
Wa-ha-lote not even the outraged Hardy could deny that the Bat Wing had
a new hand.